Episode 89: The Endless Uproar in Drbosi Castle

Drbosi Castle was noisy every single day. For some reason, even after the baron woke up, the commotion felt even more intense than before. At the very least, the priests and monks were shouting at each other like they refused to back down. The topic was almost always the value of the Gospel of Marcus.

"Is it really okay for holy men to fight like that?"

Ian asked Talian's priest, utterly dumbfounded. The priest gave an awkward smile.

"It's a theological debate, so... I think it's unavoidable."

In principle, monks and priests weren't supposed to debate. Priests held greater authority than monks. Priests were those officially recognized by the Thirteen Saints to administer sacraments. Monks, on the other hand... were just people who really, really loved the Heavenly Church. If priests were pros, monks were like the top mods in the Heavenly Church gallery—amateur experts, basically.

But that didn't mean priests could just steamroll the monks. Monks might not have sacramental authority, but they'd spent their lives practicing heaven's teachings. They were no pushovers, which meant debates were inevitable.

"Priests lead, while monks lead by example. It's hard to say who's definitively right or wrong, isn't it?"

For example, priests were like fathers—tasked with teaching and guiding the faithful. Monks were like the eldest sons—learning, growing, and living out the teachings themselves. Imagine if one day the eldest son brought home some light novel like Saint Marcus-nim Is Too Strong, What a Dilemma! and started handing it out to the kids. Dad yells, "Why do you like that trash?!" And the son snaps back, "What do you know, old man?!" ...Okay, maybe that's a bit too fiery family drama. Point is, situations like that were unavoidable.

No matter how much the priests despised the Gospel of Marcus, they couldn't completely ignore the monks' convictions.

'Yeah, if I stick around much longer, I'll lose my mind.' Ian quickly decided it was time to cut his losses. There was nothing left for him to do here anyway—just pack up and leave the castle.

Takarion had suddenly pulled some massive aggro, making departure awkward, but now was the perfect time to slip away unnoticed.

"Kira. Know where Belenca is?"

"Yeah. Eating, I think?"

"Again? She ate earlier."

Once werewolf Louis wiped out the dire wolves, the knights found themselves unemployed overnight. They'd all turned ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠into full-time couch potatoes. No training in sight so soon after the battle—just endless lounging and feasting. With nothing to do, the knights turned every day into a booze-fueled brag fest about their appetites.

Belenca had gotten swept up in it, trapped in drinking hell.

"Knights, man..." Ian clicked his tongue, picturing those brainless lugs. What did eating a ton have to do with fighting well anyway? But knights were simpletons who thought being looked down on was the end of the world, so they staked their lives on petty crap like "who eats more."

"C'mon. Let's drag Belenca out and go say goodbye to the baron."

"Uh, yeah. But the feast won't wrap up for a while..."

"Whatever. We'll yank her out."

Ian headed to the castle's dining hall. It was a rowdy madhouse thanks to the knights' feast.

"Belenca. You eat enough?"

"...Ian?"

Ian spotted Belenca the moment he arrived. She was half-zoned out, gnawing on a mountain of meat. Somehow, watching her stuff herself didn't spark even a hint of envy.

"Oh! Lord Ian! Come to join the fun?"

"Sit, sit! Hey, bring another mug over here!"

The knights welcomed Ian warmly, clearing a seat in seconds.

"Lady Kira, take a seat too..."

"I'm good. On a diet."

Kira flashed a sly smile, and the knight backed off with a goofy grin. Her instant switch to stone-faced neutrality? Peak expression artistry, as always.

"Diet..." Belenca's face fell even more. She had that blessed metabolism where she never gained weight no matter what, but even she couldn't binge daily without consequences. Refusing outright risked burning bridges in knightly networking...

That's when it happened.

"Gahhh!"

A random scream made Belenca whip her head around. Only one person would pull that crap in a crowded dining hall.

"You lunatics! Trying to assassinate me, huh?! Larabel! This is Larabel's orders, right?!"

"Whoa, what's up?"

"This! You call this meat?!"

It was none other than Ian Eredis Raven. He'd grabbed meat straight from the plate (with his hands) and popped it in his mouth—only to convulse in hellish agony.

Cr/aa/aa/ack! That stench! That texture! What the hell do these idiots eat anyway?!

"Haha! That was pig balls. Great for stamina!"

"Gack!"

Not all meat was created equal. The knights' feast fare? Offal fresh from slaughter. Their marathon binge had polished off all the prime cuts, forcing them to grill the "unpopular" bits...

And Ian had walked right into it.

"Down some ale quick. It'll kill the funk."

Ian chugged beer desperately. He burped—and pig piss stench climbed back up his throat. He nearly passed out.

"Kill the funk? What funk?!"

"It will. After ten more mugs..."

Ah. Consciousness goes bye-bye. The source? Your brain processing the smell. Knock ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it out, and poof—funk gone!

'Idiot knights...!'

Unbearable, Ian pulled his secret weapon: chili powder. Spice turned even crappy meat halfway decent—a fact proven by the Pork Gospel.

He doused a hunk of pig rind and shoved it in. Fiiiinally. Peace. A serene smile graced Ian's lips. Yeah. This was food.

"What'd you just eat?"

The knights crowded around, baffled by his weird reaction.

"Chili powder. Spicy stuff. Might make you cry."

No joke. These pure-hearted northerners bawled like girls at the heat.

"Hahaha! Good one! As if a brave knight would cry over food..."

The knight grabbed a fistful, dusted his meat, and crammed it in before Ian could stop him.

"Wait, that's way too much—"

"Cr/aa/aa/ack!"

"...Even I can't handle that much."

Tears streamed down the knight's face. He wailed like a little girl.

"Waaater... pleeease...!"

Murmurs spread. Knights from around the hall swarmed Ian. What was the commotion? Holy shit—a full-blown riot. One knight sobbing snot and tears, Ian looking pityingly at him.

"What happened?!"

"Show me what you saw!"

Even as their buddy "died," grins split the knights' faces. In stimulus-starved medieval times, this was prime dopamine. Haha! Check it—a knight crying over food?! Epic lulz. Peak party.

"This made you cry?"

"No way!"

"Lemme try... Cr/aa/aa/ack!"

"It's not that bad... Cr/aa/aa/ack!"

One by one, knights devoured Ian's chili powder, screamed, and rolled on the floor. Laughed at the others. Tried it themselves. Snotty sobs.

"Waaaterrr...!"

"Waaater pleeease...!"

Ian smirked at the chaotic feast hall. Unplanned, but party over.

"Belenca. Time to go."

Belenca sniffled. Wait, did she try it too?

"You used up precious magic ingredients... for me? You didn't have to go that far..."

She'd clocked it instantly: Ian trashed the feast to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠bust her out of drinking purgatory! (Or not.)

"Another debt..."

Debt? Over that? Chili was pricey but just food. And the sideshow was hilarious—worth it.

"Fine, whatever. Let's go see the baron."

The Baron of Drbosi, risen from his sickbed, was eating well and thriving. The castle's chaos stemmed entirely from his illness. Now that he was fine, no reason for the noise.

Lady Serena and Lady Catherine had reconciled and gotten along decently. Hard not to, with the baron glaring daggers.

"Welcome, Lord Ian."

The baron beamed whenever he saw Ian. Kicking out the chaos mage wasn't enough—he'd saved the baron's life. Human greed being endless, the baron now fantasized about Ian marrying his daughter and settling down. A mage son-in-law! Yes please!

"Glad you're doing well."

"Haha! Thanks to your checkup."

Ian gave the baron a final once-over, just in case. But after over a week of monitoring, no issues.

"You're healthy—great. So, about that... think I'll hit the road."

"Ugh, my stomach suddenly..."

"Don't play sick, Your Excellency."

Ian's cynical jab drew a hearty laugh from the baron. Cursing nobles outright? Mage privilege.

"So, you're really leaving. After setting my daughter's heart ablaze."

"Me?"

Ian tilted his head, recalling Lady Serena's daughter, Manet. She'd trailed him around the castle, sure—but did nothing but follow.

"She kept gushing about how cool your magic was."

"Hm. I am pretty cool."

Kira nodded faintly, ears turning pink. Belenca shot Ian a deadpan stare.

"Haha! You're a riot! So, how about being our castle mage...?"

"Pass."

"Hear me out! Stay, and I'll give you my dau—"

"Good call rejecting early."

"No interest in Manet at all? Such a pretty girl."

The baron dropped the jokes. No budge after all that? Ian's resolve was ironclad.

"Told Galadin. He's got travel funds ready—grab 'em on your way out."

"Thank you, Baron."

The ladies chimed in.

"We chipped in too."

"Praying for good fortunes ahead."

Ian bid a cheerful farewell.

"Well then, I'll be off..."

As he turned to leave, something caught his eye—a strange object on the table, weirdly magnetic.

"Baron. What's that?"

The baron handed it over casually.

"Takarion brought it. Said it's a holy relic."

"Holy relic?"

Holy relics were, literally, holy objects. Not necessarily magical—just anything tied to a saint. Saint's spoon? Relic. Saint's shirt? Relic. Saint's hair? Relic. Using a saint's spoon wouldn't suddenly exorcise demons; it was just a spoon. Most were antiques.

But rarely, some held true heavenly mystery.

Ian examined it curiously.

"Looks like an ostrich egg."

"What egg?"

"Monster egg."

Takarion's "relic" was white, round, light. Too light for a monster egg—probably a hollow stone.

"Careful. Drop and crack it, I can't vouch for you."

"I'll try."

Ian shrugged, inspecting it. He wasn't an idiot—gonna smash a pricey thing?

Something... feels off...

His mystery-hunting instincts tingled. More than a plain white rock.

Then.

"???"

No illusion. Ian heard a voice.

Crack!

"Lord Ian!"

"Takarion's relic!"

"...Huh?"

Cracks spiderwebbed the "relic's" surface. A tiny beak poked through.

"Cheep?"

"..."

"..."

Baron and wives. Ian's crew. All speechless.

"Chirp chirp!"

"Lord Ian! What did you do?!"

"Baron, you saw! I did nothing!"

Chaos erupted. Not just Ian's group.

"Mage Ian smashed a holy relic!"

"No—hatched it!"

"Mage Ian hatched a holy relic!"

The clergy panicked too.

"Isn't this a miracle?"

"Miracle? Of hatching?"

"No way! Is Mage ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Ian a saint?!"

Takarion burst from his room at the rumors.

'Saint? A saint? Not Golden Finger Takarion... some mage?! Impossible!'

Takarion bolted down the hall, belly jiggling.